


Unsaid

by hawkesquad



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, M/M, just read it there are no major trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkesquad/pseuds/hawkesquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he’s there, you’re miserable because he’s so hot and cold. When he’s gone, it’s arctic and barren, and the thought of that as your constant reality tears you up. You don’t want to be alone. You can’t imagine a state more thoroughly alone than Daveless. But the wondering—the wondering is what’s killing you.</p><p>And you want to live, so you have to do something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> when i'm struggling with something, namely sleep issues, i put it on characters to deal with instead. have fun!

It’s coming up on five in the morning. He’s been gone for hours and you’ve been up since midnight, nursing a headache and the knowledge that you’re going to be bone tired today. You can’t bring yourself to be frustrated by it, just miserable.

You swallow a ball of sadness and try to work yourself into exhaustion.

You do pushups and crunches until your muscles ache and your jet black hair is slick with sweat, and you try not to think of him.

You ignore a stinging pain in your back while you work out, and regret doing so when something pops and you’re on the floor in agony. You can’t tell if you pulled a muscle or got stabbed by some invisible assailant. Several gasping sobs later, you’re flat and in a dulled state of awareness, groggy from the combination of awful sensations. Breathing hurts.

You ache from your head to your toes, so you lay on the floor dejectedly and use one arm to carefully, painfully maneuver your pillow off the bed and under your head. The process takes almost ten minutes and you nearly give up when the soft, green lump finally cedes and flops to the floor. Lifting your head takes willpower, but you manage, your entire body tense and shaking from the strain.

Finally equipped with it and its lush, feathery comfort, you can no longer help yourself. A few tears begin making their way across your cheeks, tickling your eadrums as they go. You ignore the discomfort as one falls carelessly into the curve of your ear. All you can think about is his face and his hands, and the awful, awful thought that you might never be good enough for him to acknowledge.

Certainly not good enough for him to admit to anyone, even you.

You think back to the way he laughed when his friends asked if you two were fucking, because of course they didn’t take the question seriously. It was a joke. The thought of that was a joke to all of them, even Dave, who had sucked you off less than an hour beforehand.

His hand on your ass and his tongue teasing the curve of your head, he’d looked you in the eyes and you could see the most intoxicating, lusty devotion there. It was like he’d said quietly, “I’d do anything for you, John.’ That look pushed you over the edge, and as you came into his open mouth, he took it eagerly. You knew he would. He’d never admit it, but he loved it like this. It wasn’t the taste. _God_ , it wasn’t the taste. He just loved the feel of being throatfucked and used to dispose of cum. You think he’d have made an excellent and enthusiastic prostitute in another life.

But he’d laughed at their questions, so of course, you laughed with him. It didn’t hurt then. it’s not like they’d asked, ‘Hey, dude, do you love him?’ Hell no. That thought wouldn’t even cross their minds.

You bet Dave wouldn’t know what to say if you asked him that yourself. You think briefly, as a jolt of pain sends fireworks through your spine and you groan in anguish on your floor, that he would probably shut down completely.

You think he might never look at you the same again.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You’ve loved him for a long time. You met him in online chat rooms when you were twelve, occasionally coming across his red text and striking up dumb conversations about whatever. You moved in the same circles on the internet and found each other often. When you two got to be the best of friends, he told you elatedly that he’d be moving into your city. His brother had to relocate for work, so they’d be coming a month after that. You’re not sure when friendship turned into a passionate need to be around him, to an obsession with the perfect curve of his lips and the fierce, absolute look in his eyes the first time you’d seen him without shades. You knew it was love when you struggled to say it, and that was the first night you cried about him.

Two years passed, quick as could be. You were seniors in high school the first time he reached under the blanket at your house during a night of gaming and quietly jerked you off. You didn’t say anything, just kept playing, your movements getting more absurd and erratic. He never looked away from the screen.

When you came, he caught it in his palm, licked it away, and curled soundlessly into a ball on the bed. You knew he wasn’t sleeping, but you were too confused and tingly to break the silence. The next morning, you woke to him throwing Cheerios at you and telling you your dad wanted you to come to breakfast.

Your family—your dad, your stepmom, and your older sister Rose—were all gathered at the table. Your dad was asking Dave about his plans for the future while your mom teased Rose about her writing journal. Rose warned her softly to quit looking through her shit. It all seemed so ridiculously normal. You almost wanted to shout at them, ‘Guess what! I got off last night! Isn’t that something?’ You felt odd. You ate and escaped out the door with Dave, your dad urging you not to stay out too late, something about rain.

The two of you took off toward the park, less than a block away but harder to get to than anyone could even possibly imagine because of all the obstacles between your house and the main street used to access it.

When you finally got there, the sun had dipped behind a group of silvery-black clouds and Dave had taken off toward the jungle gym. You followed, tugging yourself up onto the black platforms. Dave’s skinnier frame was tucked into the hollow at the entrance to the slide. He waved you over and you sat beside him. You wondered if he’d say anything. A part of you had hoped he’d stick his hand down your pants and do a repeat of the previous night.

Instead, he leaned his head on your shoulder and stayed very quiet. You juggled ideas while he relaxed into you, thinking everything from ‘this is weird’ to ‘should I touch him first?’, and the uncertainty was making you uncomfortable. You steeled your nerves and reached out a hand, curling it around his. You weren’t shocked at how cold his fingers were. Dave always ran cold. He’d regularly stick his frozen digits under you while you were sleeping and you’d kick his ass off the bed. Nothing new. But you wanted to warm him up then.

He very simply flipped his hand over and twined his fingers with yours, and you felt the greatest sense of victory.

It was moments like those, as the first drops fell from the sky and you retreated into the far too small space with Dave, that tricked you into thinking everything would be fine.

Then college came.

The two of you were roommates, which made your relationship easier to maintain. You hadn’t talked about it. You hadn’t really put words to it. Every now and then he’d kiss you or you’d kiss him, or he’d ask you to fuck him and you’d oblige, or any number of things. It was never really talked about for being what it was, though, and the way he’d skirt around any seriousness on the topic was practically physical.

He made friends, you made friends. The two groups rarely overlapped. You two had both taken to Rose’s roommate Jade, whom Dave seemed more deeply interested in than you’d expected. You came home once to the two of them making out on his bed, and when you stared in confusion, he glared back at you and muttered, ‘Dude.’ You tore out of there, partially out of politeness and partially because it hurt.

He stopped seeing Jade.

He kept seeing you.

When his friends noticed how much time the two of you spent together, and how you never seemed to have a girlfriend on hand, they started teasing you brutally. You brushed it off, laughed along with Dave and the rest of them, and they called you ‘a pretty cool guy’ to your face. Dave wouldn’t tell you what they said when you weren’t around, and you think it was a mercy.

In the midst of everything else, he was still your best friend. That hadn’t been washed away by dicking or tears, and when you two weren’t complicating things with your genitals, you got along so well that it was a wonder you could ever be unhappy. You played pranks on him regularly, including using superglue and hair dye on several separate occasions as a running gag. He retaliated by filling your sheets with melted chocolate and letting you roll out of bed for class looking like you’d shit yourself because you slept in your jeans.

Still, when he wasn’t there and you had time to think about things that sucked, you’d work yourself into a fit and cry yourself to sleep.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tonight is one of those nights. A year into college and somehow you still don’t have the nerves to tell him to commit or get the hell off you. Part of you doesn’t want to deal with the consequences of commitment. Part of you is terrified he’d choose to leave if you made him choose at all. It can’t go on forever, not with the effect it’s having on you. When he’s there, you’re miserable because he’s so hot and cold. When he’s gone, it’s arctic and barren, and the thought of that as your constant reality tears you up. You don’t want to be alone. You can’t imagine a state more thoroughly alone than Daveless. But the wondering—the wondering is what’s killing you.

And you want to live, so you have to do something.

You stretch your toes and let out a shocked cry as pain parades through you. You think you might have to call for an ambulance if Dave doesn’t come back soon.

He was supposed to be back from a party an hour ago.

You both have class at ten in the morning. You’re not going to make yours, but Dave is practically religious about being there on time every day. You’re holding out on the hope that he won’t suddenly break pattern so you don’t have to go through the embarrassing ritual of having an EMT take you somewhere so strangers can help you shit because you’re in too much pain to do it yourself.

You wait forty minutes before he finally comes through the door, and it’s nearing seven.

‘Yo,’ he says, dropping his keys on his bed. ‘What’re you doing on the floor, Egdork?’ He looks as tired as you feel, his eyes puffy and red even around the irises. You groan and explain.

He kneels and rubs your shoulder soothingly, and it’s the nicest thing you’ve felt all day. It’s so easy to forget how fucked up and complicated everything is when he’s there and he’s touching you.

When the two of you manage to negotiate yourself into his bed—it’s lower than yours and the only one you could possibly get to in this state—, he asks if you need anything. He brings you a soda and some ibuprofen, and gently threads his thin fingers through your hair. It feels so nice that you want to cry.

You say as much and the two of you laugh. The way he’s looking at you makes you wish you weren’t in so much pain.

You spend a few hours together, the two of you playing non-intensive video games and him helping you get to the bathroom when you need it.

When you notice the time, you tell him he’s going to be late for class, but he says he isn’t going.

‘Can’t leave you here for an hour to fend for yourself. You might die trying to breathe.’

You roll your eyes, but you’re touched and relieved. He crawls over your torso and curls up beside you, his head on the pillow right next to yours. You drift off to a dreamless sleep.

When you wake, he’s looking at you. You don’t mind. You’re long past feeling self-conscious around him. He puts his hand on your cheek and turns your face toward his, kissing you sweetly.

‘Feel better already. It’s making me sad just looking at you.’

‘Sorry for being an inconvenience, dickhead,’ you say, and jab him in the stomach with your elbow. It hurts like hell for you, but you don’t mind too much.

It’s so good to just be around him.

You feel your worries from earlier creeping up to burst your bubble, though, and he notices the change in your face.

‘What’s up?’ he asks, and you feel the words stick in your throat.

You don’t have the courage to say it, but you force the words out anyway, terror and anxiety launching them forward at a far more rapid rate than you’d intended.

‘Dave, do you love me?’

And like that, he’s stock still, his eyes comically wide and his face blank.

His back is to the wall and it’s all over his face that he wishes he had an easy escape that wouldn’t involve rocketing past you.

Your heart is racing. You wish you’d said it better. You wish you hadn’t said it. You wish he’d fucking _say_ something.

‘Dave?’

He looks supremely uncomfortable suddenly, and you can see the frown coming before it happens.

‘Dude, I’m gonna go pee.’ He gets up and makes his way past you, carefully not touching you but also not taking his time whatsoever. If he leaves now, you doubt he’ll be back for a while.

‘Dave, please don’t go. Please,’ you say, and don’t realize you’re crying until you choke on the tail end of your words. You hate this. You hate everything about it.

And he’s there, by the door, shifting from one foot to the other like he wants to run but has to stay.

‘John, dude, can we not.” It’s not a question. He won’t look at you.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.’ You cover your eyes and try to quiet yourself down. You didn’t expect to get so emotional, but you’re struggling under four years of sexual tension and unaddressed love. There’s nothing you can do.

He rubs his face and says, softer than you expect, ‘I really need to go pee. I’ll- I’ll be right back.’

He leaves and you wait almost fifteen minutes before the door opens again.

You’ve taken another small handful of painkillers and covered your head with a pillow. You’ve got the start of a migraine going and you don’t want to let it get too much worse.

You hear him come in but you don’t move. For a while, there’s nothing. No sound of motion, no speaking. You can’t tell if he’s just standing there or if he’s left again and you didn’t hear him.

You’re startled by a hand on your stomach. You feel it slide over the fabric of your shirt before it ducks under. His fingers tease at the hair below your navel, gently sliding along the line where jeans and boxers meet flesh. He sighs.

‘When did this get so fucking hard?’ You wish you didn’t feel like shit. You’d have capitalized on the opportunity to make a sexual joke.

Instead, you respond with an equally unhappy, ‘I don’t know.’

His hand moves back up your stomach to rest on your side, and you’re quietly relieved. You don’t know what you’d do if he tried to start anything with you. It would probably push you over the edge.

He lowers himself onto the bed, this time to the open half of the room, and tentatively curls an arm around you.

It’s a disaster, of course, but not as much of one as you expected. At least not as obviously.

He says after a time, ‘John, I don’t…’

You wait, your head still covered and your breathing shallow. You’re tired, sore, and emotionally unsettled. You want to let him speak. You need to let _him_ speak.

‘I don’t know if I love you, dude.’

It falls on you and hurts less than you had anticipated. The most painful part had been the worrying. Now you’re hearing it and it doesn’t feel as bad as all the nights you spent wishing you could ask.

‘Yeah,’ you say softly. ‘I thought so.’

And you did. You figured he either didn’t return your feelings or couldn’t possibly be self-aware enough to know if he did.

At least he’s talking, you tell yourself.

You think your admission stung him a little. ‘How long have you been thinking about this?’

It’s easy to admit you’ve been wondering for years. He looks horrified.

‘Christ.’ He takes a moment to digest it before continuing, ‘This is kind of a lot to deal with right now, man. I wish I had some answers for you, but…’

You drag the pillow off your face and level him with a look that says, ‘It’s okay.’ It is. You don’t know if you’ll get to keep your friend. You don’t know if you’ll get more. What you feel is relief, and you want him to know that.

He breaks eye contact first, and quickly, and rolls over. He pushes his back up against you on the tiny dorm bed, but you know he does it to reassure you that he’s not running.

You don’t know what’s going to happen to you two, with the year barely starting and the two of you in need of one another in a way that has nothing to do with the tangled wreck of sex and emotions, but you think it’ll probably be fine, one way or another. You ease yourself onto your side and get an arm around him. He doesn’t stiffen or pull away, so you figure it’s probably fine.

‘Dave.’

He waits. ‘Yeah?’

‘I love you.’

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to, not yet. You know he’s probably as terrified as you are, so you tuck your head against his back and you close your eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at reduxcorrelator.tumblr.com. if you have any concerns, critiques, questions, or requests, please feel free to leave a comment on the work or send me a message at my blog. feedback is very much appreciated.


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